


The Talk

by GoldenSnowflake



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Age Difference, Aloof Romantic Interest, Catching Feels For Rick Sanchez, Drabble, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Oneshot, POV Second Person, Unattainable Romantic Interest, Unrequited Love, Vignette, What Could Be More Relatable Am I Right, mention of bodily fluids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 09:55:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9318095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenSnowflake/pseuds/GoldenSnowflake
Summary: “I don’t expect anything from you.”He holds your stare. You don’t look away until his voice fills the disquieting chill of the musty air again.“That’s not what I asked.”-Alternate Title: Don't Catch Feelings For Alcoholic Geniuses-





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short vignette I started a while back before suffering horrific writer's block. Also an obligatory warning not to fall in love with Rick Sanchez (although if you clicked on this fic, it's probably too late.)

“You know what this is, right?”

You look up at him from under the haze of exhaustion, panties still twisted around your thigh and your neck still stinging with bruising teethmarks. You’d tried to get up to leave a while ago, but when tears had welled in your eyes and your arms gave out beneath you, he’d let out a sigh and told you to stay. He’d always been too big for you, painfully so, but you came back anyway, again and again and again.

Rick’s expression is carefully disinterested when your eyes are pulled to his magnetic gaze. You swallow thickly and pinch a wrinkle in the sheets between your fingernails.

“I don’t expect anything from you.”

He holds your stare. You don’t look away until his voice fills the disquieting chill of the musty air again.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I don’t,” you utter again, softer. You can’t lie to him. Even if you could bring yourself to, he would see right through it. It wrenches in your gut painfully, something wet and bittersweet. It feels almost good to know that he now knows.

Rick watches you silently as your heartbeat thrums harder, slipping into your throat. Another hot pulse of his cum trickles out of you as his eyes burn into the side of your face, and the stale air feels colder in comparison.

“What … what are you wanting here?”

Beautiful, long fingers move to splay on the sheets. They’re inches from yours.

Swallowing again, you weigh your options, which are shrinking beneath the exhaustion clouding your mind. Rick is brilliant. He knows _already_.

Even then, the answer is something you have carefully protected yourself from, something you have held as far away from consideration as you are capable of. _I’ve got a pretty girl just like you in three neighboring galaxies_ , he had murmured inches from your face the night you met, breaking the heat in your face by lifting your jaw with cool fingers. Anybody else uttering the same words would have brought bile up your throat. The circle of people chatting a few feet away had laughed at something as he brushed his thumb over your upper lip, and it had taken every ounce of your will not to bring out your tongue to meet it.

The thought of losing what he has given you already hurts in a way that could quickly become frightening.

“This,” you finally answer. It isn’t a lie – not really.

“Christ.”

When his fingertips move across your forehead, brushing the hair out of your face, your body relaxes involuntarily. The steady throb in your chest is an ingrained response; the goosebumps that wash over your stomach too instinctual to mask.

“You’re a fucking mess, aren’t you?”

Because there’s nothing else to do, you meet his gaze once more. It’s pensive; worried. The realization yet again of how brilliant and untouchable he is makes your insides twist, forcing another trickle of his seed from between your raw lips. You can’t tell him that you wake up in the night with the ghost of his face burning on the backs of your eyelids. You can’t tell him how you look in the mirror for an hour at a time, tracing the ugly bruises in the shape of his teeth with your eyes over and over. You can’t tell him that three different men – men your age, smart, responsible, handsome men – asked you out in the past month or so alone; that there wasn’t the slightest twinge of reluctance when you politely turned them down.

You can’t tell him that the colors begin to drain away from the world when you haven’t seen him in over a week.

A long sigh escapes him, a reedy, familiar sound above you, and the tingling pain in your chest disappears with it. Your eyes have drifted closed, your consciousness narrowing to the distant hum of the air conditioning and the familiar, beautiful smell of his skin. His graceful hand traces the ridges of your spine and the pads of his fingertips leave a fizzling, euphoric warmth in their wake.

“Get - get some sleep, kid.”


End file.
